Souls of Heroes
by SonOfAstora
Summary: There are many tales in Lordran and Drangleic. Here are my takes on some of them.
1. Allone and the Iron King

A King and a Swordsmaster

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

Is it not the folly of man that we see violence as the best solution to any problem?

Men roared and fought as the clash of iron deafened them and the acrid scent of fire, smoke and death filled the air, making breathing a near impossibility.

Warriors once of the same kin fought as brother, fathers and sons all slew each other due to the anger of two kings. Neither side could even truly remember why they fought, only that they fought, and fighting was the only way to earn food, and food meant living a little longer, and life meant a possible escape from the fighting.

So man clashed pointlessly as gods watched and laughed at his folly.

But man rose above what gods intended for them to become, harnessing the power of the earth they stood upon, building mountains and fortresses, ascending to the heavens as the gods watched on, not in laughter, but now in fear.

Only for man to come tumbling back down again, and their laughter began anew.

But one man grew tired of this laughter, this incessant mocking of his very species. This man built armies in a desperate bid for some form of power, so he might make these incessant voices of gods silent for once in his life.

At least, that is what he said. But in truth, in cold, hard truth, he sought to do little more with his new found followers than satisfy his own pride.

So he fought and fought, until some land was his. A small kingdom, little more than a province, really. But it was his kingdom, and his pride was momentarily sated.

But his people were starting to doubt their king, who loomed over them in his grand tower, as they slowly ran out of food and water, and bandits ravaged their land.

The king realized his folly, and immediately took action. But his armies were weakened by all the fighting, and thus his kingdom died before it had begun. But that was not the real ending of his story, no.

For, at this crucial moment in history, a savior arrived. A man clad in armour of the east, carrying a blade so powerful, its very strength was greater than the kings entire army. The man wielding it sought audience with the king.

This mans name was Allone.

xxXXxx

Allone was a wanderer. A vagrant swordsman, a master of the blade, forever drifting from land to land, never stopping. Until now.

No one truly knows what he saw in the prideful king. Perhaps the humble warrior saw a man so unlike him it was fascinating. Perhaps he saw only a victim of the same fate that had befallen hundreds of kings, and sought to remedy this mans troubles. Or perhaps he too was power hungry, and saw an easy way to gain fame and fortune in these lands.

But whatever his reasons, the man was a godsend. Together, the king and Allone fought and brought the kingdom back from the brink of disaster. Back to some semblance of order. During the fighting, they grew close. They came to see each other as their brother, and bonded in the fires of war, their kinship forged in battle like the iron the king was obsessed with.

For the king saw no weakness in iron, no flaw like his own pride. The king only saw strength, and unfailing loyalty. Their bond was so like iron the king took it upon himself to use the vast stores of iron within his newly rebuilt kingdom to produce many things.

A fortress, a grand castle made entirely of iron blocks, rivets and bands. Within this fortress he constructed a great iron throne, a monument to his power. He built mighty suits of iron for his most powerful warriors, turtle like in appearance, and nigh impenetrable in practice.

And to continue his hunt for iron he began tearing into his land itself. He ripped the land open, cutting great gouges in the earth, pulling thousands of tons of iron ore, and crafting it into armour and blades for his warriors, styled after Allones own equipment, and constructed a great refinery powered by fire.

But his relentless greed took its toll on the land, the once lush Harvest Valley becoming a toxic wasteland, home to shambling abominations enslaved by the kings iron will, who continued to rip their own land asunder despite the harm it caused them.

The king was also obsessed with fire, especially its heat. For heat could mold iron into anything he wanted, and the rare art of Pyromancy became an obsession for him. The power to wield fire as he wielded blades and maces, like a weapon.

A woman named Eiygil approached him, for she was a master of pyromancy, seeking to give it a will of its own. The king accepted her as a subject, and under her orders a mighty statue was built near the entrance of the iron kings keep, a massive bull headed iron statue, built to mark her love and affection for the king.

But the king was too focused on moving forward, bringing his nation to the forefront of industry and power, he ignored many things. A woman who showered him with affection, another whose beauty was beyond compare, and his kingdoms relations with other places.

But no king could ignore the looming threat over all of humanity. For when the king was at his most powerful, an ancient curse rose again, one that seemed almost determined to drive man back to his weakest state. And thus the undead rose once more, and the darksign branded a great many people.

No amount of iron, no matter how much or how strong, could halt the undead. But let it not be said the king failed for a lack of trying. He crafted shackles of iron to bind the undead, and would free them in the Undead Purgatory to be run down by the sadistic and merciless Executioners Chariot. This torture was unending, for undead never truly die.

Thus was the fate of any who displeased the king.

But, it was not enough. The undead continued to multiply in number. So the king opened his kingdom to hunters, warriors who would track down and kill the undead endless times for sport and reward. But still the curse continued.

And it was at this crucial moment in time Allone stepped away. He left the king, whom he loved like a brother, to his own conceit, to die. He had grown sick of his kings constant demands and ruthless nature, so unlike the prideful but kind man he had become brothers with. So he took his most loyal followers, and fled the kingdom and the kings wrath. And rightfully so.

The king was infuriated. How dare Allone leave him, abandon him like some miscreant. He sought vengeance, and gave chase, to a tiny fort many miles away. To the home of Allone and his disciples, who had tried and failed to escape his fury.

He slaughtered the paltry handful of guards defending their master, who, despite being trained by a master of the blade, were mere breezes compared to the whirlwind of rage that was the king. And so the king massacred them, and entered Allones sanctuary.

Allone was not himself that day. Where his blade, his mighty, all powerful, cursed blade, would have spilt the kings blood a thousand times, the king nimbly avoided each blow, the sword cutting through air instead of him. Finally, realizing he could never bring himself to kill his battle-brother, Allone took his own life, impaling himself upon his blade to avoid disgrace.

But our story does not end here, for the king still had one more room to look into. For in a tiny room, off to the side of Allones hall, was his old throne, a symbol of his humble beginnings as a small lord.

Then the king fell to the ground and wept bitter, salty tears for all he had lost in his ruthless pursuit for power. The respect of his people, his warriors, his own greatest friend. So the king wept and the gods laughed anew, overjoyed by the dramatic spectacle before them.

But the king hardened his resolve, hearing this laughter once more. He vowed to return his kingdom to a state stronger than ever, to avenge himself in the eyes of his dearest friend. And so begins the final act of our story.

xxXXxx

The king had returned from his hunt a changed man, and many noticed. He rebuilt his nation, and made it stronger than ever. He did not halt the undead hunts, but put restrictions upon the hunters. The people did not mind, for they too hated the undead, foul creatures that they were.

Eigyl especially saw the change in the king, as he ordered her to begin a new project, one that would bring her dream of granting fire a will to life. He created a mighty suit of iron, a fearful creature that looked a monster, and she gave it life using fire. However, something went horribly wrong.

The creature awoke into this new world, took one look at the king, and swung his blade. The blow threw the king aside, as Eiygil panicked, throwing a great ball of fire at the beast. To her shock, the beast seemed to welcome the fire, absorbing it into its body before killing her with a single downwards stroke of its blade, swinging in an almost dismissive way.

The king could only watch as the beast went on a rampage, the already faulty supports of his great keep finally failing and sending the monolithic structure crumbling deep into the earth, partially sinking it into the lava beneath. But the king stood, and tried to fight the beast, in an almost last ditch attempt to save his kingdom. The beast looked at him again, and swung once more, sending him tumbling into the lava.

Within the lava, the ancient soul of a proud lord, once the ruler of all the sun touched, found the burning king and absorbed his essence, creating the mighty demon Ichorous Earth.

And the gods laughed once more.

xxXXxx

And that is the tale of the Old Iron Kingdom. Gather your strength, undead, for the wrath of the former king shall not be conquered easily.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

**Hello there folks. So, I was really, **_**really **_**sick for a while. I wrote this while incredibly feverish, so if it seemed scatterbrained or nonsensical, there you go. Tell me if you liked it, and have a lovely day.**


	2. Alsanna and The Ivory King

The Warrior King

**So… In a fit of madness, I decided that 'A King and a Swordmaster' should be a series. Basically, welcome to Souls of Heroes, where I write down lore theories of myself and others, and make them more… story-like. Today, we explore the tale of one of the most interesting romances in gaming history, The Ivory King and Elsanna, fragment of Manus.**

**Best Song for this Story: Skillet- Whisper in the Dark**

**This story was written for the DSS's Soultine event.**

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

The Ivory King was pleased with himself.

After the fall of Forossa, he had set off, adventuring through the lands, gathering followers and fellow warriors, all of whom pledged themselves to his blade. He took it upon himself to find them a new home, and now he had. On these frigid, windswept glaciers, they would found a mighty city, built of the stone found naturally beneath the ice, protected by the sheer walls of ice and a band of some of the mightiest warriors in existence.

Yes, he felt he had permission to be proud.

Even now, mere weeks after their arrival here, after the treacherous scaling of the glacier, they were making great progress in their construction of their new home. Multiple buildings had already risen over the ice, constructed of simple but elegant beige stone, and held together by mortar made of the ice itself.

The strange creatures that dwelled in this land would have been a problem, but the Ivory King and his new knights were powerful in both mind and arm, and repelled the attacks of the strange horned beasts, and even the monstrous cat-creatures that swarmed and tore at the innocent people who followed them.

Then the screaming began.

Screaming, interrupted by bestial roars, deep and loud roars. Something big. The King turned and ran towards the sound, drawing his weapon, the silver blade gleaming in the sun. He leapt over a stack of bags of food, and rolled, before rising to his feet and seeing his opponent.

It was big, standing almost twice the height of the king, but skinny… no, not skinny, wiry. Very wiry. Thin arms banded with muscle held twin iron blades, each the size of the kings blade, easily. But its most terrifying feature was its head. It looked like a goats skull, with massive horns that added an easy foot to its height, and made it look even more terrifying. Beady red eyes poked out from the eye holes, making the king wonder whether the beasts head was the skull, or if the skull was merely a helmet.

Then he had no more time to wonder, because its monstrous maw opened up, and it roared again before charging, both blades raised over its head. The Kings reflexes saved him, as he rolled beneath the incredibly distanced leaping swing, before spinning on his heels and slamming his blade into the back of the beasts shins.

It roared again, this time a higher pitch, no doubt due to the pain, before whirling around faster than the King could comprehend, massive iron blades slashing the air where he used to be. The king had leapt into the air, inhumanly quickly, and hammered his blade onto the top of the beasts head. The skull cracked, and bone and blood flew through the air as the king finished his leap, rolling onto the ground behind the monster, which staggered forwards a few steps like a drunk before collapsing to the ground.

The king watched as the beasts body twitched, before one of his followers, a knight by the name of Janos, walked tentatively up to it, weapon held in his right hand, before he brought it down onto the creatures neck, stopping its movements. The King stood for a moment, before walking to the hole which had opened up in the center of the glacier.

He looked down it, and words flashed through his mind, spoken by a Scholar of his homeland. He had heard them as a small boy, and now they reemerged into the forefront of his mind.

"_Gaze not into the Abyss… lest the Abyss gaze back." _

**xxXXxx**

A scream echoed through the frozen wastes, and naught but one man answered it. The King sprinted through the snow, hearing the cries of a woman, which spurred him on, putting on a burst of speed.

He had been touring along the edges of his city, a simple jog to keep himself in shape, something he watched carefully. He had had his blade with him, for he never let it leave his side, and his armour on, for what use was exercise if he did not mimic the conditions of a battle?

"Help!" The cries echoed, the King hearing them once more.

He jumped over the last of the snowdrifts in his way, the blizzard seeming to intensify as he did, as though trying to stop him from saving her. He fought onwards, drawing his weapon and leaping into battle. The woman lay clad in little more than a torn robe, a cloak laying upon the ground several feet away.

She sported several cuts across her side, and a small chime, commonly used for casting miracles, lay in the snow by her side. He tore off his own cloak, revealing his armoured form, and raised his weapon, finding her attacker. Another of the massive cats.

"Come on then, you big ugly ball of fur! Fight me!" He roared, taking up his blade in a two handed grip.

The creature roared back, and the two began their fight.

The beast pounced at him, practically flying through the air, but was surprised when the King practically mimicked the attack, jumping at him. The two met in midair, the kings weapon slashing twice. The first slash was across the cats face, slashing its snout. The second slash was across its forehead, the blade biting deep and digging into its skull. The cats momentum and weight beat out the Kings, however, and they were sent plunging to the ground.

The King spun on the creatures face, tearing his blade out as the fell, and using the momentum to kick off, leaping high above the plummeting form of the monstrous cat. It slammed into the ground, and rose shakily to its four paws, searching for the human who had dared deny it its meal. Then the King came plummeting to the ground, blade facing downwards and spearing the cats head, and the cat felt nothing more.

The King drew his blade from its fleshy sheath and jumped down from the top of the monster, cleaning his blade on its fur before turning to the woman he had risked his life to save.

The woman was still laying on the ground, awestruck by the demonstration of martial prowess she had just seen. The King reached a gauntleted hand out.

"Are you quite alright, madam? What is your name, and what are you doing out here all alone?" He asked, as he looked at the woman more closely, realizing her legs were badly gouged by the cat.

"I… I am Alsanna…" The diminutive woman replied, and despite her voice being barely more than a whisper, even then it trembled with fear. "I… I fear I cannot walk."

"Well, I'll just have to carry you then. Here." He said, draping his cloak over her, before picking her up with both arms, weapon sheathed on his back.

"I… thank you… who are you?" Alsanna asked, eyes focused on this mysterious man.

"The Ivory King, at your service, m'lady."

**xxXXxx**

"My lord, there is something deeply, deeply wrong with her. She hadn't bled out by the time you brought her back, and she regenerates at a worryingly fast pace. We had barely even applied bandages before she was fine."

"I do not care."

"My lord, please! We believe… Sorceror Navos believes she may be an… an Abyss creature."

"I don't care, Commodus."

"You are blinded by love, my lord. All our tests are final; she is not of this world! She will likely try to kill you!"

"Then let her. She was helpless, Commodus, and needs aid."

"Then let her wed one of your knights, then! You will take her for your bride, as your queen, when you have barely known her for a week?"

"I love her, Commodus. I don't care what she is, I only care for who she is. You see the difference?"

"But, my lord…"

"No Commodus. She loves me, and I love her. The wedding is planned for next month. I will take her as my queen, and you cannot stop me."

"That does not matter."

"Very well, my King."

**xxXXxx**

"Please… don't leave."

"I must."

"What will the kingdom do without you? What will _I _do without you?"

"You will do what you have always done. Survive."

"I… I'm not strong enough. I can't lead them."

The Ivory King turned at that, looking his beloved in the eyes before dropping to one knee, putting himself at eye level with his kneeling queen.

"Yes, you are, and yes, you can. You must believe in yourself."

"I can't… you know who I am! I am the literal embodiment of my fathers fear! I can't not be afraid!" She yelled, rising to her bare feet.

"Alsanna, I can't stay by your side forever. I must go, I need to seal the gate."

"I won't let you! You have a duty to your people as well as me, and you can't just abandon us!"

"Alsanna, you're being selfish!"

"You think I'm being selfish?! I have stood by your side for years, through dozens of attacks by the creatures of that pit, and now you just want to go off on some adventure down there, just leave me?!"

"I WILL DO WHAT I MUST TO STOP CHAOS, EVEN IF IT MEANS EXILING MYSELF TO THAT HOLE! I SWORE I WOULD STOP IT AT ANY COST, EVEN MY OWN LIFE IF I MUST, AND NOW I MUST! SO NO, I AM NOT LEAVING YOU!"

Alsanna fell to her rear, scurrying away from the roaring King and his voice, that voice which had sent even the mightiest of foes running for their lives. Her eyes teared up as she felt her fear overwhelming her anger. She curled up in the shadow of the throne, eyes affixed on the terrifying entity that was her King.

The Kings scowl softened, and he blinked several times, forcing back his anger. He stared at his terrified queen, trembling beneath her stone throne.

"Alsanna… I… I'm sorry." He said, kneeling down. He knew how to deal with these moments at this point, from experience, to his shame. Keep your distance, try not to startle her, and keep her calm. "I shouldn't have gotten so upset. I still must do this, however."

"It… it… go. Go before I try to stop you. And know… you go with my blessing, and my love." She replied.

"Farewell, my love."

"Goodbye…" And with that he was gone, the love of her life, the King of Eleum Loyce, taken by Chaos.

**xxXXxx**

So go now, Chosen Undead. Free the king from his torment at the hands of Chaos, and claim the Ivory Crown for your own. Do not falter and do not fail. For if you succeed here, you succeed forever.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

**Thanks for reading, and please review, telling me if you want this to be a permanent fixture.**


	3. Chapter 3

Every Rose has it's Thorns

**Well, I honestly wasn't expecting to be back for this, but here we are. Thanks to an inspiring piece of music, one that invoked memories of Dark Souls, I bring you this tale. One of tragedy, one of sorrow, but also one of love. For aren't love and tragedy one and the same?**

**Best Song for this Story: Starset-My Demons**

**xxxxXXXXXxxxx**

Death.

Death had come for the infamous Knight of Thorns. Former Darkwraith, one of the first betrayers of that dark order, and likely the last one standing. Here he lay, bleeding out mere feet from his beloved. Mere feet from the woman he had given up his brothers, his fellow warriors, for. He had begged her not to look, not to see him in this weakened state, but she hadn't listened. She spoke words of encouragement, words of hope, but even she knew they were false. The wounds were too greats.

Blades of his former companions had split his flesh, spilled his blood upon the cold ground. They had pursued him to this sanctuary, finally found his hiding place. They had invaded him, numbers nearly a dozen, fighting him many against one. He had fought back, killed them all, but he was practically immobilized. Losing an arm and having one of your legs practically torn off would do that to you.

He had fought well, he knew, and his foes had paid dearly for their victory, with their lives. But still, they had their victory. It filled him dually with anger and sorrow, knowing he had lost like this. That he would die like this.

His mind flashed memories before him. Memories of victory, of defeat, of that damned undead, who had beaten him not once, not twice, but THREE times. Each of those losses had been a bitter pill to swallow, but he had endured. He had always endured. But not now.

This was his last death. He knew it. He had never been a true undead, anyhow. He had pretended. He was really a human, and now he would die. At least he would die with his beloved, that woman for whom he had given up his life. But all he could wonder was one thought.

"_Who will help you now?"_

**xxXXxx**

Red.

Red was his life. Red was the colour of the orb that brought him to the worlds he killed the inhabitants of, the colour of the blood he spilled, the colour of the worlds he saw through his eyes as a phantom. The world was red. The blood was red. He was red.

Red.

He stood in the sewers of the Undead Burg, his sword and shield in his hands, ready to spill the beautiful, entrancing, red blood of his newest victim. Red was his life, after all. And now he would coat the mildewed walls of this place with it. He would paint this place red.

He grinned beneath his spiked helmet as his foe walked into his vision. A man clad in the armour of an Astoran Knight, the righteous sods that they were. He carried one of their swords, and one of their shields, as well. But he didn't carry himself like a noble. He carried himself like a real warrior, one who had been fighting for years of his life.

Kirk loved him already.

The man took up a fighting stance, his shield held up and his sword held by his side, the grip loose but firm. This knight knew what to do in a fight. Kirk took no time making his motives clear, charging his foe. He awaited the inevitable panicked slash or thrust, one that he could parry, only to riposte and hammer his blade into the foes guts. But this man was different.

The knight sidestepped Kirks frenzied rush, slashing only once Kirk had his back to him. The blade, fortunately for Kirk, caught on one of the armours titular thorns, glancing off. Kirk spun, bringing his weapon around in an arcing blow, only to find the man's shield in the way. Then the knights sword met Kirks shield, and they found themselves face to face, struggling for dominance.

Kirk smiled. Now this was a fight! Two equally matched warriors, facing each other in a one to one duel. No allies, no environmental hazards, just two men equipped and ready for battle. Kirk was loving every moment of it.

Kirk rolled away, letting the man stagger slightly from having all his momentum being forced to move forwards. Kirk lunged forwards, bringing his black blade up to throat height, but the man brought up his own silver weapon up and parried the blow, before counter swinging. Kirk stepped away from the knights swing, kicking at the man's knee. The knight jumped back, and Kirk was left wrong-footed.

That was not good.

The man stomped down hard on Kirks leg, breaking it beneath his booted foot, before slamming his shield into Kirks head, denting his helm and ringing his bell, so to speak. Kirk was dazed and in pain, and opened his eyes in time to see the blow that ended his invasion hammer into his throat.

**xxXXxx**

The second time Kirk invaded that knight, he had found a better place to do it.

Just beyond his home lay the ruins of Izalith, his mistress's former home, before she was forced to retreat after her and her mother's unholy transformations, from the mighty witches of fire, to ungodly abominations. Kirk snorted at that. Who was he to call anything 'ungodly'?

His blade in hand, he strode down the narrow walkway, the heat from the fiery river below washing over him, though his phantom status meant he was a lot less aware of it than the knight was. And there he was again, the same knight, with his same weapons, though his sword appeared to have been upgraded with titanite, the same going for his armour.

Kirk tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the weapons leather-wrapped hilt through his armoured fingers. The knight was still clad in full armour, in this stifling heat, and Kirk was honestly astonished. Whenever he came down here, he had a tendency to pull off his helmet, at least, but here was this man clad in full plate, mail and a surcoat. Even the brown scarf around his neck was still there.

The knight, raised his shield, beckoning for Kirk to approach. Kirk had learned, however, and stayed back, his own shield raised. The Astoran visibly twitched his shoulder in a shadow of a shrug, before throwing caution to the wind and charging Kirk with his sword up and his shield raised. Kirk raised an eyebrow, before raising his own sword and charging right back.

The two met in the centre of the walkway, and silver met black as their blades hammered into each other, sending sparks flying into the air. They both struggled for several seconds, pushing shield against shield, sword against sword. Kirk eventually gave up, letting the man's blade swing towards him, bringing up his shield and thrusting his sword forwards simultaneously.

The blade hit home, digging into armour and flesh as it struck the man's stomach. Kirk grinned beneath his helmet as he twisted the blade, pulling it out with a sickening 'schlick' noise that most men would find nauseating, but Kirk found to be akin to music.

The knight and he dueled back and forth, the knights blade swinging in an arc of shining silver as Kirks blade slashed in a blur of black. Blows were struck to armour and shields, but no injuries were sustained, until the knight was backed up against the edge of the cliff.

He kicked Kirk away and Kirk rolled with the blow, rising to his feet several feet away as the man fell to one knee. Kirk smiled, a sadistic leer, and charged, weapon held over his head. He realized too late he had been fooled. The knight rolled to the side, and Kirk found himself teetering on the edge of the drop to a painful, burning death.

He could have made it back, stopped himself from falling, had it not been for the knight kicking at his knee. Kirk howled as he fell, blade falling from his grasp as he fell from the cliff towards the red hot river beneath him.

**xxXXxx**

His last death was the hardest to bear.

He had entered the ruins of Izalith themselves, frighteningly close to the Witch's sanctuary. His red and black form was surrounded by demons, and he saw more scattered around the place. He gripped his sword ever tighter, looking for his foe.

There. Upon the zenith of the pyramid, staring at Kirk as though he awaited his arrival. Kirk knew it must be a trap, but he didn't care. He climbed the stairs to the top of the pyramid, reaching the summit, and found the Astoran standing on the other edge, weapon in his hand. The man bowed, a simple gesture, and Kirk returned the favour. This would be a duel between equals, they both knew, and would have to be initiated properly.

Then they fought.

Kirk was a whirlwind of destruction. His blade was everywhere, slicing and stabbing from every angle and every position possible. It was a black blur, a tear in reality itself trying to slaughter his foe. But still the Astoran stood.

If Kirk was a whirlwind, the Astoran was a fortress. Every blow was met with a gleaming silver blade, every slash deflected and stab parried away. The man was untouchable. Kirk was infuriated. The knight hadn't even struck back yet, and Kirk was already tiring.

Then his sword was met by the dragon-crested shield, and forced back, pushing Kirk dreadfully off balance. The blade of silver swung once more, and bit deep into Kirk's armour and side. Blood flowed from the crushed and split plating. It was a deep, beautiful red.

Red.

Then Kirk was falling, back towards the precipice on the edge of the pyramid. His armour was carrying him over, but something stopped him. His eyes snapped into focus, in time to see the Astoran gripping him by the collar and pulling him away from the lethal fall. Kirk didn't fight back, too tired and hurt to care.

The knight lay him down on the floor, the brown stone warmed by the amount of lava around. Kirk would have been comfortable, had it not been for his current blood loss amount. Then the knight reached for Kirk's helmet.

Kirk tried to move away, but his strength was sapped, and he allowed the Astoran to pull off the black steel helmet.

Kirk knew what the knight was seeing. He was seeing unkempt black hair, stubble, a sharp, hawkish nose, and deep green eyes. He was seeing the scar running the length of Kirks left cheek, and the scar that marked his chin. He was seeing the true face of the infamous Knight of Thorns.

He was seeing Kirk.

Then, the knight did something stranger. He removed his own helmet, revealing an atypical face for an Astoran noble. Instead of the usual pale skin and blonde hair, the knights skin was shade darker, suggesting a life spent in the sun, and light brown hair, the colour of the stone around them. The knights eyes were a deep blue, so much so that Kirk felt like he could drown in them were he to look too hard.

But he didn't have time to look, because the knight placed his hands on Kirk's chestplate, saying something. Kirk's vision was fading, but he could see lips moving, in a sort of chant. He could barely hear what was being said, but one word rang clearer than the rest.

_Forgive_.

And with that, Kirk died for the third time.

But this time, it was with a tear in his eye, and sense of enlightenment in his chest.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

**Well… that's that. I've been in a melancholy mood lately (friend died) and this was sort of me dealing with that. See ya.**


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